The Wholock Games
by Juan Roca
Summary: Crossover - Doctor Who, Sherlock and Hunger Games: 24 Tributes of Panem are chosen to compete in the 75th Annual Hunger Games, including characters such as The Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, Donna Noble, John Watson, others
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Good eeeeevening, Panem! And what a _beautiful_ day indeed!" Caesar Flickerman turned around in his chair as his thundering voice boomed and echoed across the studio, beaming at his already roaring audience. He flicked his tongue along his lips in excitement. He'd been presenting the Hunger Games alongside Claudius for years now, but it - as the Games themselves - never ceased to amaze and excite him.

"Yes, it is, Caesar, though I feel like I must add that for a few lucky ones today has been a more than _glorious_ day, isn't that right?" The audience's response to the Games' commentator Claudius Templesmith's comment was immediate and deafening, the surging roar seeming to come from all four sides of the studio at once. "Yeah, that's right! How many of you watched the Reaping for the 75th Hunger Games this morning?" Another roar from the crowd as several hands shot up into the air, most of which were covered in gloves of the brightest shades of all colours existent.

"Well, that is a funny question, Claudius, since watching it is, but is also _not_ what we are doing here tonight!" This remark by Caesar brought a loud gasp from the audience as they waited for him to explain himself. The forest green-haired man shook his head theatrically, and lifted his gaze in order to stare straight at the camera, and the eyes of the audience at home. "No, no; you see, what we _are_ doing is bringing you an _in-depth view and analysis_ of the Reaping in _each and every District_ including our comments on their chosen Tributes!" And in that moment half of the audience could have fainted, if not for the excitement of hearing more about the Tributes in this year's Games. "Entirely different, _en-ti-re-ly_ different!" He shot them a pearl-white grin.

"Yes... Well, shall we begin, then?" Claudius enticed the viewers' curiosity further. "As I understand, Caesar - please, correct me if I'm wrong - we have in our hands Panem's third Quarter Quell, is that it?"

"Yes, that's right and it seems Head Gamemaker Mycroft Holmes is playing all his pawns and more, as we have all our Tributes being former Victors! And might I say: we have got ourselves some real fighters this year, beginning with the beautiful Irene Adler!" The crowd - and mostly the men - shouted their approvals as the screen behind the presenters shifted from the Capitol's symbol to some footage of the Reaping in District 1.

They briefly mentioned her cunning rise to victory and stunning good looks before moving on to the male Tribute, Jack Harkness, who was apparently already popular amongst girl viewers. They spoke of his abilities in full-frontal combat and his chances of winning again, then the screen showed District 2.

The female Tribute, River Song, was said to have the odds on her favour despite her misleading name, and little was said of the male Tribute.

There was not much to add to the astoundingly intelligent Healer Martha Jones or "Pretty Boy" Jim Moriarty, and even less to be said of Astrid Peth, but the men took a moment to discuss the subject of District 4 Tribute Sherlock Holmes.

"Now, what can you make of this one, Caesar?" Claudius wore a puzzled expression that, whether it was fake or not, was bought and quickly copied by the audience.

"I sincerely don't know; I mean, I have surely heard, as we all have, of Volunteers from so called 'career Districts', but I had _never_ seen one that met such circumstances!" The crowd 'oohed' and 'aahed' in response to his confession. "This young man gave up _his life_ to help an older man who has won the Games once - and could certainly do it again-," At this point he flashed his teeth at the camera. "and he is not even related in any manner to our dear Wilf! Actually, I daresay they have not met once! I bet he was just _cuh-razy_ to play, and my advice to the other Tributes is to watch out for this one because, apparently, he is ON FIRE!" Another roar erupted from the crowd as they moved on to present the other Tributes.

From District 5 had apparently been Reaped 'the definitely not-unfairly named' Donna Noble and 'the completely unexpected - though cunning as a fox - victor who insisted on being called only' The Doctor, whose first victory had stunned all due to its unusual circumstances.

They quickly talked the audience through the Tributes from District 6, 7, 8 and 9, making few remarks, mostly on their chances of survival a second time. The ones that stood out the most were the clever and technical Christina de Souza, awfully hard to catch Donovan, the young but terribly fierce Jethro and the unlikely Victor Mickey Smith.

When they reached District 10, sweet but painfully clever Molly Hooper was brought into more depth, and the male Tribute, Anderson, was little discussed.

John Watson, the male Tribute from 11, was brought further into discussion, as his tactics for winning his first Games had been to lay low until the near end, fooling everyone into thinking he was weak, and cold-bloodedly murdering his last two enemies when the situation so asked. His knowledge of healing, despite his upbringing, was also approached.

'Last but not least', the Tributes of District 12 appeared onscreen, and the presenters mentioned how well Sally Sparrow's pretty face helped hide her cunning and slight brutality, and how The Master (who also wished only to be called that) had chased and killed off nearly every Tribute from the beginning, until the final showdown was reached and his opponent preferred to pierce her heart with a knife than to face him. Caesar added how proud he was of District 12's Tributes' evident strength and survival skill improvements in the past few years.

"Oh, no! Could it be time already, Caesar?" Claudius exclaimed, pretending to look at his watch and pulling off the best surprised face he could manage, quickly changing it to one of pure fake sadness.

"I'm afraid it is, Claudius, and we must wrap up here..." He eyed the audience, pretending to be hurt by the moment. They 'aahed' disappointedly. He shook his head slowly, then grinned all of a sudden. "But there _will_ be more! Be prepared to find out who's again a survivor and who has become nothing but dead weight in a few days when we reveal THE TRIBUTES' TRAINING SCORES!" As he bellowed the last words and made them echo across the studio, hanging in the air for a few seconds, the audience roared in excitement and approval. "Good night, Panem, and make sure you dream of your very own new Tributes, to get a taste of what's coming for you!" He winked both at the audience and camera, and he and his colleague waved the nation goodnight just as the lights went out and the show ended.

**Sooo... This may seem KIND OF complicated at first, but I think (hope) you'll get used to it... It's basically what the description and the first chapter say: The Hunger Games with Wholock Characters! **

**I do not intend this to be a one-shot, but that's actually up to you: tell me what you think, and if I get at least three (good) reviews on this, I'll post the next chapter! :D **

**Weeeell... Thanks for reading, and may the odds be ever in your crying favor!**


	2. Chapter 2

**HEEEEEEY PEOPLE! SORRY FOR INTERRUPTING THE BEGINNING OF YOUR STORY BUT YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO READ THIS BEFORE YOU READ THAT (*arrow down because I'm a stupid fake geek who doesn't know how to make one*)!**

**Moving on... This is the second chapter of The Wholock Games (*Snape saying 'obviously'*), and these chapters won't really have names... Sorry, too creativity-lacking, but the important things are: I'm posting this because you actually liked it (THANK YOU FOR THAT!), and that will stop now. Just give me a few days and I'll post the third chapter (which is already done), and so on, okay?**

**Other subject of importance: you may be a bit confused at first about the POV of the chapters, but that's exactly my point... I'll use SEVERAL POVs in my chapters... From most of the Tributes, actually so, get ready! This one is just Sherlock, but the others _WON'T BE JUST ONE_, okay?**

**May the odds be ever in your crying favor!**

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock did not believe in God; he didn't believe there was anything greater than wit, logic or his own knowledge. He was absolutely sure that he could logic his way out of anything, including the twisted invention that were the Games.

He wouldn't need God in the Arena, he'd only need to lay low and know his enemy. Or at least that's how he saw things.

For that reason, he sat huddled on the floor, back against the wall, elbows propped up on his knees and hands knotted over his mouth and chin as he observed his fellow Tributes in their natural habitat: the Training Centre.

Deep inside, he was dreadfully tired of all this, of pretending to actually take an interest in the Games. All he wanted as he volunteered for another round - contrary, seemingly, to popular belief - was to get a better chance to see these Games for what they were, to inspect the Capitol's macabre murder scheme more closely.

And, just maybe, he had felt a pang of sympathy for the older man, but that was something he would hide from the press at all costs. Let them believe he was dying to get in their merciless little Games once again; let them think whatever they wanted. He had won this once, and could certainly do it again. _Would _do it again.

He inspected his opponents' actions while they trained; he noticed the way the curly-haired blonde woman - he recalled that her name had something to do with water, but didn't remember it exactly. Not that he needed to; it's not as if she was important - barely looked at the weapons she was grabbing, apparently confident that she could handle anything. She looked back and noticed him watching, making sure to send him a slight wink and flash a grin at him. He chuckled softly to himself. She really believed she could handle _anything_. Well, she could try to catch him first; maybe then they'd start talking.

He moved his gaze to her right, where the other blond-haired girl - from District 12, this much he recalled - expertly sent an arrow flying across the room and quickly rolled sideways. Sherlock arched his eyebrows as he watched the arrow describe a gentle arch on the air and strike a dummy on the other side of the Centre, piercing through the bulls-eye, through its heart. He barely had time to dwell on this, though, as already a second arrow followed, hitting the dummy's head, and making the whole thing shake violently. She stood up slowly, a satisfied smirk across her face. Sherlock didn't even need to search his intellect to understand she was a pure fighter, and a possible winner, which could mean, perhaps, a threat to his plan. But then not really: her ability to handle long-distance weaponry and her speed did not compensate at all on her lack of posture, her slightly limp left side or her obvious arrogance of thought. Easy enough, that one.

He stared dumbfounded as the white-blonde man from 12 brutally ripped a dummy's head off with his bare hands, and raised an eyebrow as the man tossed the plastic head across the room and spurted out a laugh that could only be described as manic. A tall man with black hair and a pearl-white grin - from one of the first Districts, if he wasn't mistaken - slapped the other one gently on the shoulder as he whispered something into his ear. They shook hands, and Sherlock couldn't help but think how ridiculous it was that already alliances were being made, with the Games being still days away. Sherlock had already decided he would not make any alliances, of any kind. He worked alone, and he would win like that – again.

He quickly surveyed the others. The dark-skinned Healer was picking out edible herbs and berries in a corner of the room. _Typical_, he thought. The male Tribute from 11 - who he actually remembered was called John - sat in a corner, fiddling with a knife and occasionally throwing it at a dummy few feet before him. Though he hit bulls-eye every single time, he insisted on sighing, getting up, retrieving the knife and restarting the process. It was boring to watch, but Sherlock kept staring anyways, despite himself; he could not move his gaze anywhere else for a couple of seconds. Either way, he quickly understood that the man planned to repeat the strategy he used in his first Games, which was helpful to Sherlock's judgment.

He looked sideways and noticed a dark-haired young woman – from District 10? He wasn't sure – quickly shifting her stare from where it had been barely seconds ago: him. She did so nervously, a violent blush spreading across her cheeks. It's not as if Sherlock wasn't used to this - he'd brought upon him the stares of many young girls back in his District -, but he'd thought perhaps his fellow Tributes would be a bit more intelligent than to eye someone lustfully, knowing you would have to kill him – or, most likely, be killed by him.

He watched her stare at the floor and continue tying a complicated knot, putting in too much strength - probably due to her self-directed anger – and ended up ripping the thin rope into two short stubs. Sherlock thought he caught the glint of a tear on her cheek. _Weak_, he immediately thought, despite his hate for early labels. He couldn't help but think that of the girl who cried during training, for a man she didn't even know, had never spoken to. She was going to die soon, surely.

He continued looking around, and saw another dark-haired woman, from District 1, performing an elaborate dance, knife in hands, her flourish though deadly movements leaving the dummy on which she was practicing nearly in shreds. She obviously meant to distract her Tributes in the Arena as she performed her kills and, though Sherlock would never admit it, she was succeeding a bit. As he watched her slicing and moving graciously around, his thoughts flew back to the man from 11, though he quickly pushed those away.

He looked at the woman again and saw that, despite her grace and divine subtlety of movement, her feet eventually struck the ground hard, causing her to lose balance a couple of times, her movements having been too rough. They were making this too easy for him; it wasn't fun like that. He had already thought of four ways to easily kill her, and the Games hadn't even started yet. Those Tributes would have to improve a lot if they were hoping to beat him.

Sherlock ran his eyes across the room one last time and noticed something he hadn't seen in his first studies of the Centre: there were two other people sitting down, not unlike him, and refusing to train. Sherlock had a clear reason not to do so: he obviously didn't need any training, as he would not use any weapons, and he was well-enough mentally trained already, but he felt that was not the reason why those two were copying him.

The black-haired young boy - perhaps from District 6 – sat in a curled-up tight ball in a distant corner of the enormous room, hands over his face. As Sherlock watched from afar he removed his hands and lifted his head, eyes red but keeping his face serious and steady as he gazed at nothing.

Sherlock could see something deep inside his eyes, deep inside his soul, but what was it exactly? He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but could it be… Yes, he was almost sure it was that. The boy's tears were not of sadness or grief, and definitely not of happiness; he was tired: tired of the Games, tired of his life. Sherlock remembered his face from watching last year's Games with his landlady Mrs. Hudson, and he imagined the boy wasn't willing to compete again; he didn't want to see - or do - any more killing. Sherlock remembered again – as he had found it odd - how the boy had won only out of luck, as the last remaining Tribute ran straight into a trap he had set on his first day. The boy himself had been hiding in a cave deep inside the woods, unwilling to go out. Sherlock was sure that boy was going to die fast in these Games – and that maybe that's what he wanted in the first place.

Sherlock eyed the other figure; that one he could recognise clearly: the so-mysterious to everyone Doctor. In his first Games a few years ago, when Sherlock was still a young adult, he'd appeared out of nowhere in the arena, inside a funny blue box, claiming not to know how he had ended up in there. Sherlock had thought, even back then, how ridiculous the trick of lights and deceptive camera motion by the Capitol had been; they'd obviously been intending to make the older man win since the beginning. The strange box had been removed almost immediately, leaving the man to the mercy of the Games. The Capitol had obviously just wanted to give the audience a good show, but had failed as the man had ignored the last four Tributes and hidden in the midst of a plantation field, coming out only when the last remaining Tribute came looking for him, and just to kill him by smashing his head against a tree.

Sherlock had seen the purpose of that strange kill since the beginning: the man had not wanted to touch any weapons. Still, it was a suspicious victory, but the Capitol had accepted it. _Of course; they were the ones who created it_, Sherlock mentally reproached himself.

Sherlock searched the Doctor's eyes and face as he sat down, cross-legged and staring intently at the ginger woman from his own District. He could see the reason for the Doctor's defiance to the Capitol was not his own, and not the boy's. The Doctor apparently had different ideas concerning murder, though he had not hesitated on committing it during his first Games. Maybe he lost his mind at the prospect of power, but no - Sherlock could see it was not that. He had never wanted to kill that boy, no matter the Capitol had told him to. He'd intended on disappearing, just as he intended to do now.

Sherlock remembered how no one had seen or heard from the Doctor in almost ten years after his Games. Where could he have gone to, and why would he have come back now, only to take part again on something he apparently wasn't even willing to? Sherlock would have to inspect him more cautiously when the opportunity came.

Sherlock saw that the others were now slowly shifting towards the door. Had training already ended? Had he been so enthralled in his own thoughts that he had missed the signal? It didn't matter anyway, and he was used to that happening.

Sherlock slowly got up, and sighed as he remembered he would now have to get back to his District's accommodations, and put up with Astrid Peth again. Had the train ride not been painful enough? He was sure she would not stop chattering once again, and as ignoring her hadn't worked, he would have to lock himself up in his room to escape. Better that way, he figured; more time to think.

Small step after small step, he got out of the training room and into the elevator, already wondering how he could kill Astrid in the arena, if the opportunity came. He smirked to himself. In a quarter of a minute, he'd thought of eight different ways.

These Games were already won.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sooo... Just a very short third chapter before I start _the Games themselves_, and I'll try to keep this a weekly thing - on Saturdays -, but I'm lazy and busy, so I _don't_ promise anything...**

**May the odds be ever in your crying favor!**

**Chapter 3**

_Today._

The single word kept ringing in Donna's head. _Today_. She tried to push it away by violently shaking her head, obviously to no use. _Today_.

In a few hours, she'd be thrown somewhere - she had no idea where - and forced to survive.

For her first Games she'd thought that it would be, in some twisted way, exciting to be in there, in the show she'd been watching since forever. Never mind the kill or get killed part, she was on TV! But after she'd seen the true nature of the Games, she was totally weary about going in again.

She was good, _obviously_, but some of the other Tributes were pretty damn amazing, and most were just astoundingly brutal. She still stood a good chance of winning again, but it would be tougher now, and she knew that.

Despite herself, she thought of all the other Tributes that, not unlike her, were a nervous wreck right now. Would she be able to _kill_ them? Obviously, as she wasn't any sort of idiot, she'd killed her way out of the other Games by throwing heavy rocks to the heads of the two remaining Tributes, but she wasn't sure if she could just do it again, take someone else's life - for nothing. Only that bitch Irene. That woman's attitude had annoyed Donna profoundly since the beginning, and her interview had been simply _outrageous_. That one, she could easily stab.

Someone knocked on her door and she sighed in deep annoyance before she reluctantly got up and answered whatever idiot it was. She was surprised as she saw her District's other Tribute, the Doctor or something. He'd tried talking to her in many occasions before, but she'd tried to be brief and rude, so he wouldn't try it again. She was hoping to make it clear that she didn't want any friends in the Arena, and definitely not him; why would she want a coward, a man who'd somehow found a way to escape Panem after his victory, as an ally? And besides, it's not like she _liked_ him or anything! He did not make her take in a deep breath and want to ruffle his already unkempt hair every time he showed up, and she was sure of that. She was!

She waited impatiently for him to say something and he, apparently, did the same. Well, she would not start a conversation when she was the one who had to get up and open the door, so they remained like that for a few awkward seconds, until the Doctor shifted on his feet, apparently deciding to break the silence.

"Um… Hello" He spoke in a sort of low, awkward voice, though there was an obvious smile at the corner of his lips as he looked at her. _Cute_, she thought, then mentally reproached herself about a thousand times. She mumbled something that must – or at least should - have sounded like a 'hey' under her breath, not looking him directly in the eyes.

"Yeah, it's just- just so you know Lestrade's looking for you. About, you know… the Games" His voice had raised a bit, and his eyes still hadn't left her face. That was one of the things she noticed about him. The other was a bit more annoying, as he wouldn't stop making these weird faces when he spoke. She kind of liked it actually – no, she didn't!

She rewound his sentence and turned her mind's attention to what he had actually said: if Lestrade was looking for her, then the Games should be starting soon. Why else would her mentor call her just like that? She didn't even like him…

Donna quickly mumbled a 'thanks' before pushing past him towards the apartment, closing the door behind her. As she turned away from the door, she bumped headfirst into him, and very quickly, awkwardly apologised.

"No, no! No problem, really!" Strangely, he was laughing, and even she felt a smile coming up, but quickly pushed it back. "It's… Donna, right?"

And for the first time, she raised her head and looked at him directly. She looked beneath his slightly arched eyebrows, and couldn't help but to get lost in his eyes. "Yes… Yeah, it is. Donna Noble…"

She didn't know why she was telling him this, but he didn't seem to mind. He smiled a bit, then eyed her completely. His expression suddenly became a serious one. "Eh… Listen, I don't even know you, but anything can happen out there, so… Good luck, Donna Noble!" And he opened an enormous grin, as if what he'd just said was an award-winning speech.

Sincerely, Donna was offended. She lifted an eyebrow at him before snapping an answer.

"Oi! And you think I'll need any? Well, thanks a lot, Mr. I-Like-To-Give-My-Opinion, but I guess it wasn't really necessary!" She regretted the words as soon as she'd said them, but it was too late, and the Doctor was already conjuring a disappointed, hurt, and mostly just angry stare. He rushed out of the room without a word, leaving her there. Alone. Like she would be for the following weeks – and perhaps the rest of her life. But then, maybe that was also included in the following weeks…

(**********)

"Sally Sparrow!" Cinna sang from where he perched against the table. Sally had barely entered the room and already he walked towards her, smiling delightedly.

She couldn't help but to smile back. She was usually weary towards others, but one could only be so self-protective when it came to Cinna. In just a few days, he had found a way of bringing long-lost joy upon her.

"Almost time, huh?" He tried to make small conversation - to keep her busy, probably - as he retrieved her Tribute jacket from where it hung on the wall behind the table.

"Yeah..." She breathed, pretending to be nervous. Of course she wasn't really; she didn't need to be. She wasn't sure that she would win, but there was chance, and she'd be happy to make top 5, at the least. Cinna smiled sympathetically at her as he wrapped the jacket over her shoulders.

"Look at you" He was beaming father-like as he finished dressing her up in gear. "Announcing our Victor from District 12!" He mimicked Claudius Templesmith's voice, and she couldn't help but to laugh. _Happiness_, she thought. _So strange at this point in the Games._

She fumbled in her jacket's pocket for a moment, knowing what was there, and found what she was looking for: Larry's photo, her District token, the only thing she'd actually wanted to take with her to the Arena. She stared at him for a while, wondering where he was right now, what he was doing, if he was worrying about her. Did he even think she'd come back? She thought so, but wasn't sure. She grimaced sadly; she'd miss him so much if she didn't... But she couldn't afford to think like that, at all.

Suddenly, a female voice echoed across the tiny room: _30 seconds_. She sighed; it was time.

Cinna hugged her, adjusted her long ponytail one last time, and then they sadly said their farewells. _10 seconds_. She looked around the small room one last time, thinking of everything she was gambling here, before hastily stepping onto the cylinder. The glass closed in around her. After a few seconds it started to rise, and she found herself surrounded by darkness.

She didn't know what she'd find when the light seeped once again through the cylinder's glass, but she knew one thing: she was ready.


	4. I'M SORRY I'M SO SO SO SORRY!

I'M SOOOOOO SORRY! I'M AN AWFUL STUPID JERK AND YOU OUGHTA HATE ME (please don't though, I'm sad and I just want a hug...)!

I should have posted the bloody fourth chapter A WEEK ago, and then again I should be posting it today but, well... I COULDN'T FINISH IT! SORRY! Blame school and life (yes, I still have a rather small remnant of that) and my evil Beta and time, which of course and unfortunately doesn't stop when we want it to!

I SWEAR I'll do everything in my power to bring it to you next week, okay? And just to settle in: I'M SORRY! *David Tennant's sorry puppy face*


End file.
